Tears of the Moon - Di Morrissey [158]
But she heard the defeat in his voice. Tyndall’s fire and wildness had died. She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.
He rose and turned away from her. ‘I wish nothing but the best for you, Olivia.’
‘What will you do?’ she whispered.
He turned back at the door. ‘I’ll wait.’ The door closed behind him.
Olivia dropped her face in her hands and cried softly. Why had she not waited? Her pride and anger had sabotaged their chance of happiness. Even though fate had stepped in to solve Tyndall’s marital dilemma, she’d never given him a chance to free himself and prove his love to her.
But she had made her choice. She would never hurt Gilbert Shaw as she’d been hurt. Her heart ached for Tyndall. She wished he’d shouted, been drunk, or thrown something. She would never forget the sadness and loss he showed, or forgive herself for being the cause.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tyndall looked down at his white buckskin shoes now coated in red dust. The legs of his white duck trousers were also filmed in red powder. He shrugged and stepped out from under the sparse shade of the pot-bellied baobab tree—dust was a common denominator at the Broome Turf Club. It was still a rough and ready track with limited amenities, but at least all the bush had been cleared from the centre of the course so there was an uninterrupted view from the grandstand.
The annual meeting was one of the main social events of the year and a rare chance for the ladies to display the latest fashions. Tussore silk and voile were popular dress choices, topped with large hats with plumes and lace, or neat toques. The women suffered through the dust and blazing sun, wilting as the afternoon wore on. However, at the Race Ball they’d bloom again in different creations.
Tyndall had a fair sum riding on the Broome Cup and he moved to the rail as it got under way.
The favourite, ridden by a well-known station identity, took a comfortable early lead and punters were anticipating cleaning up. But a horse charged from the pack in the home straight and stormed past the leader, winning by a length. The jockey lifted an arm in jubilation and to everyone’s surprise, long hair flowed from beneath the jockey’s cap.
The crowd roared as they recognised the teenage daughter of one of the leading families. The steward clutched his head and club officials hurriedly conferred.
While someone searched for the club’s rules, Tyndall called out, ‘She won fair and square, let it stand.’
The crowd, some of whom had climbed onto the fence by the winning post, and those contemplating their loss, were in good humour and sided with Tyndall. The steward decreed that the win stood. A big cheer went up and there was a stampede to the bar, where everyone declared the tradition of the Broome Cup for providing great entertainment and gossip had been maintained.
Tyndall quietly collected his winnings and headed back to town for a few drinks before changing for the Race Ball.
In recent times he had thrown himself into the social scene of Broome and lived wildly, for times were booming and there was a careless almost desperate atmosphere of gaiety and high living. Talk of the possibility of war in Europe had little impact on this distant outpost of the Empire, despite the headlines in London.
That evening at the Race Ball he danced with mothers and daughters and sent hearts fluttering. Since the departure of both Amy and Olivia, he was considered one of Broome’s most eligible bachelors, even in his forties. The roistering young adventurer had become a successful and enterprising master pearler with expanding business interests. His virile looks and charm had increased with the years, as had the mystique of his colourful life.
But for Tyndall, life was far from what he wished. He thought of Olivia every day and sometimes thoughts of his lost daughter Maya came to him, always causing him depression and a deepening sense of loss. He began to think there was a curse on the women who came into his life and subconsciously he kept all women at an emotional distance.
Tyndall kept